Courting Death
by ScaiOnyx
Summary: Throughout history, beings who has courted death has always existed.


A/N - Wrote this 2 years ago for an English assignment. I'm not even sure if this _can_ count as fanfiction. Technically, it is based off a TV program, but it's a News program so...until someone tells me this doesn't belong here, it's staying.

Disclaimer - The only part of this story I own is the imagination this story grew in.

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**Courting Death**

_Step._

The last battle for any living thing has always been Death. It can come today, tomorrow or decades later. It can even come before the first breath has been drawn. It can be a long drawn out campaign, or a quick skirmish that end before it has even started.

_Step._

Many fear Death, running desperately until it decides to stop playing and pounce. Some wait patiently for Death, knowing their time is near. Others seek Death, eagerly diving into unknown depths. A few defy Death, but sooner or later they submit. Fewer still court Death. Not running nor seeking. Not waiting nor defying. A battlefield of mines, where one misstep means everything is lost.

_Step._

Gladiators of Rome. To them, Death appears in many shapes and sizes. Hungry beasts with razor-sharp claws and even sharper teeth. Heinous criminals with twisted hearts and bloodthirsty eyes. Other gladiators – maybe friends − vying for the attention of audience and Death. Lunging forward, falling back. A slash to the neck, a thrust to the heart. Spectators scream for _blood, more blood_. One is captured by the net of the other. A quick stab and the trembling coliseum erupts. One is gone, the other has survived. The winner will continue to play with death, until fun and games are over.

_Step._

Medieval Knights. They ride to bloody battlefields where Death rules. With swords drawn they join the dance. Distant archers with bow and arrows. Common infantry with pikes and spears. Imitation cavalry armed with lances and shields. All are unworthy partners to a full blooded knight. Across the plain, one with the skill appears. One charges forward and the other mirrors them. Mounts collapse and a different dance begins. Iron blades glint and clash as they meet and part. Body to body. A sword's length away. Carefully circling, searching for a weakness. A stray arrow flies and embeds itself in the throat of one. Death has become bored. One is slain by an unaware archer, the other will return home with unearned glory. One will dance again with Death, the other will never move again.

_Step._

F1 racers. A familiar track. A deadly assassin. They race towards Death at 300km/hr. At the same time they flee from the flames of hell. An armour of steel and aluminium won't be any protection from the explosion of a crash. They know the dangers, how close Death is. They survive one race, and another. Famous for winning scores of races. Not a single accident during the thousands of time around the track. One second. All that is needed is one second of hesitation, one second of inattention for Death to win. One second is all that is needed for a 620kg chunk of metal and flesh to somersault through the air and burst into flames. This one's race has finished.

_Step._

Russian Roulette. A game where Death always wins. All who play, play with Death. Empty a revolver of all its cartridges, insert one – just one – bullet and spin the barrel. Don't look and aim at one's own head. A game of chance, a game of Death. First shot, 17%. Second shot, 20%. The stakes are rising, when will the bullet emerge? Third shot, 25%. Fourth shot. 33%. One more shot and the outcome will be clear. Fifth shot, 50%. It is obvious who Death will claim now. Last shot, 100%. One has a hole in their head, the other is drinking a tankard of beer.

_Step._

Now it is my turn. Sixty metres and a single wire is all that separates me from Death. A tremble wracks my entire body. One misstep and Death will claim me. Come Death. Walk with me on this thin metal wire. Every step is a battle to stay balanced. Every somersault is part of a dance. Every trick is accompanied by a racing heart. I am afraid of Death, but my craving for this excitement, as I challenge Death, is my master.

_Step._

I know that sooner or later Death will claim me. I do not run, for I know I cannot escape. I do not seek, for Death will surely find me. I do not defy, for I know all that lives must eventually die. I do not wait, because that will be too boring. I am not the first, nor will I be the last. Throughout history, existences who court Death have always existed.

_Step._

Adrenalin courses through my veins. Every step I take brings me closer, but the other side still seems miles away. I have walked along ropes of every shape and size, yet the excitement and feel is always the same. The wire is a narrow line between the pitfalls of Death. Will I survive this time as well? Or will Death finally claim me?

_Step._

Five more metres until I have once again survived Death. Steady now, don't rush. There is no net to catch me if I should fall, no harness to pull me up if I slip. One misstep and death will claim a bloody mess from the cold, hard ground 60 metres below.

_Step._

Four more metres. One last flip to taunt old Death,

_Step._

Three more metres. One last hop and the excitement explodes in my veins.

_Step._

Two more metres. A strong wind blows and I nearly fall.

_Step._

One more metre. One last leap to shake Death off.

_Step._

Once again, I have courted Death and lived.

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A/N - Constructive criticism is welcome.


End file.
